


Steel

by Nilozot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fights, M/M, Making Out, Post-Purgatory, Season/Series 08, moody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilozot/pseuds/Nilozot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean comes back from Purgatory in an altered frame of mind, much to Sam's confusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [360Killer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/360Killer/gifts).



He wanted to feel that clarity again. That black and white world where nothing existed but innervation and sweat and fight. Dean hadn't slept while in Purgatory, hadn't eaten or bathed or thought for even ten seconds about fucking. The monster afterlife was as inhuman as Hell in its own cold, diamond-edged way, but different. Hell was all about the slice: Hot blood-seeping agony, a thousand times whipped over the scars, or could be a million; time worked about as well as Biblical ages there, no matter Dean's bullshit about forty years. Whereas Purgatory was the icy blade, all about swing and motion and flowing athleticism that was both zoned-out and hyperfocused. In Hell the only thought possible was the screaming _stop stop make it stop,_ but in Purgatory you just _couldn't_ stop and rest and allow someone else's sword to come and rest in you. The cold infected your soul and animated you, and the thought simply didn't occur.

So when Dean burst back into the world – Earth, humanity's home turf, and he was one of the few who could state that with authority – the first thing he noticed was how very warm it was. Even though it turned out to be spring, night, and friggin' Maine, still he could feel the comforting elan of the Earth oozing into his frozen psyche like a balm. Made for humans – not the tortured souls turned demonic, not the alien angels and the anesthetized humans they babysat for all eternity, and definitely not the monster vermin that viewed them as food. Sorry, Benny.

By the time Dean found Sam a week later, he had calmed down somewhat, come down from the mind-altered adrenaline high. That was replaced by a jittery electricity, in which everything – eating a hamburger, taking a shower, feeling the rumbling power of Baby's engine as he rolled over the ignition – seemed amplified, pulsing, alive. Flesh replaced the blade. Human yet again, it was hard to believe.

All of that was in direct contrast to Sam, who was in one of his periodic nihilistic funks, not giving a shit about his friends, whatever chick he was moping over, or his own damn brother, who was rather jazzed to be among the living again. Even _Kevin_ was leading a more engaged life, and he appeared to be a prophet on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Which tended to happen when both the angels and demons were hunting you down, but it reinforced that Sam didn't have anything to bitch about.

“Dude, what is _up_ with you?” Sam finally snapped, after Dean jumped one two many times. In the Impala of course, when Dean the driver was distracted and couldn't strike back. Wimp. “You're twitchy, Dean. Like you want to pick a fight.”

 _Not really,_ thought Dean. Fighting, real combat, wasn't jumping the gun at every little insult. It flowed naturally from your fingertips, like your whole body breathing. The sword an extension of the hand.

Dean's body still wanted something, though, that's for sure. “Naw, I just need to move, man. Sitting in this damn car for hours on end isn't cutting it.” He nodded up the road a little while Sam's eyes narrowed. “There's a motel outside of Rockville just a couple miles ahead, maybe stop for the night. Get back to Kevin tomorrow.” At the motel he'd probably pace for hours, but better than the transcendental zombie zone of the highway all night. Sleep still wasn't normal, although his appetites had come back.

“Did you just swear at the Impala?” Sam asked.

“Okay, _you're_ the one looking for a fight, Sam. Just because you're doing the gloom thing, doesn't mean we all are. Just because I came back, doesn't mean I came back _wrong.”_

“Right,” Sam, muttered, and slumped back against the seat, all slouched over in his huge frame and scowling. Dean knew that look, Well, he knew all of Sam's looks – including the hopped-up-on-demon-blood look and the yeah-bro-my-soul-is-missing-so-what look, which really weren't a healthy set of facts to know about a sibling – but this one was pretty old school, where Sam bottled up his emotions only to let all come exploding out at later juncture. Sam had been sporting _that_ look at least since he was, oh, three.

“C'mon, spill it, man. What's your problem? I'm back, I'm more or less not fucked up, I didn't hold a gun to your head to come with me. You could have stayed back in Nowheresville and played housewife if you wanted to. Not like Kevin expected you to rescue him anyway, at this point.”

Sam's expression reached volcanic levels, just as Dean predicted, and it came boiling out. “ _Not_ fucked up. You mean, not fucked up in that you spent a year doing nothing but slaying monsters, not even eating? Not fucked up that _Cas is dead?_ Your not fucked up actually is fucked up, Dean.”

The mention of Cas did bring a twinge of guilt over Dean, but mostly anger. What the fuck did Sammy know about it, how Castiel felt irredeemably tainted by foulness, as if he was exactly like one of those humans whose souls had turned into beasts? If humans fell into the grotesqueness of vampires and werewolves and black-eyed demons with cruelty oozing out of their pores, what monstrosity comes out of a fallen angel? Purgatory to Cas was exactly like Dante's fantasy, a place where your wretched soul could be tortured until it came out strong and clean and pure. His own private Hell for the monster he thought he'd become, only instead of burning for all eternity, the realm of Purgatory was cold and cruel as steel.

Dean was certain that, even if Castiel had given up completely and bared his throat to the slaughtering masses, he wouldn't be allowed to die. The entire universe did appear to be that much of a bitch.

“I said Cas was gone, not dead,” Dean told him, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “He made his own choices, he's got to deal with 'em. Just like you and me.”

Sam looked a little stunned by the revelation. “Cas _chose_ to stay in Purgatory?”

Dean grunted in the affirmative. “More or less.” But before he could get far into the inevitable third degree, the motel mercifully curved into view.

They jumped out and did the usual paperwork, as the bored desk clerk eyed them and gave them the single key. Dean's mind was sliding right back into these mundane tasks, as much a nightly routine as washing the spare underwear and popping open up a beer.

Sam was still shooting off worried-frowns all the way to the room, so Dean knew he hadn't yet dislodged whatever was really bothering him. How the fuck had his brother managed to live in a fog for a year, clearly cutting loose his former life without a backwards glance, but now felt he had the right to act all prissy and hurt at _Dean's_ behavior? Yeah, fuck that.

In the room, Dean tossed off his shirt into a corner, and Sam unconsciously followed his example. Normally Dean would be flopping on the dank bed by now, maybe reading up on Monster of the Week or flipping on the TV, but tonight the restlessness compulsion to action still infected him, and he stood there a moment trying to decide what to do.

“Sam,” he ventured at last, “do you you give a damn that I'm alive? At all? Is that what this is about, I ruined a perfectly good self-pitying wallow by coming back?” Dean took a step towards Sam, suddenly aware of how very warm and pulsatingly alive he was. Hearts didn't pump blood in Purgatory. You breathed, but it was only a memory of the body from before. He was inside Sam's personal space now, a carefully delineated territory depending on circumstances such as activity, location, and – yes – nudity level. But the warm breath was alluring.

“This is the third time you've been dead, really dead, and come back,” Sam choked out. “Usually I'm the one that changes.”

Dean scrunched up his face, trying to remember. “I count two?” Maybe he was counting the time Azazel ran them over with a truck? Dean was only, like, mostly dead. No comment on the other bit; probably not a good time to mention that yet again, Sam had changed.

“The Trickster. Gabriel, I guess. You don't remember.”

“Oh yeah, the Groundhog Day of Death. Right.” Somewhere in Sammy's brain there existed, what, a year? Five years worth of Dean dying every day? He never said how long it lasted. He never revealed how bonkers he'd gone, either. Although given subsequent events, Dean had an inkling. An alternate life, the branch sliced clean.

“Everyone else leaves when they die. What makes you keep coming back?” Sam whispered.

 _You, dumbass,_ thought Dean, but that was too corny even for him. Ditto: _You're the only family I got left._

So instead he inched closer, and on impulse placed his palm right on the center of Sam's bare chest. The ribcage jostled as Sam sucked in a breath. To Dean's fascination, he could feel that hot muscle rhythmically throbbing under his hand, and imagine the viscous liquid flowing through every inch of his body. Maybe Benny had rubbed off a little too much, maybe that was his problem.

And then Sam tossed him and had him pinned back to the floor. Dean didn't let the Purgatory warrior take over to stop the motion. Sam was straddling Dean's hips and holding his wrists against the floor, and the whole setup resulted in more skin contact than Dean had felt in a year. Now both of their hearts were pumping wildly, warm and human.

“What the hell are you and what have you done with my brother?” Sam hissed at him, inches from his face.

Dean laughed hard at Sam's overreaction. Which admittedly, didn't help his case that he was really Dean. Hey, at least his eyes didn't bug out an unnatural color or something. “Fine, fine, maybe I did come back different. Who wouldn't? You think you were the same after being trapped in the box? Was I the same after my little vacation in the Pit? We're _here_ now, that's what counts. You want to prove it with the silver? Reintroduce me to the cold cutting blade? 'Cause I had enough of that for a whole lifetime.”

Sam held still as stone, with most of his lug of a weight pressing down on Dean as he hesitated on what to do next. _Reflexes getting slow, bro,_ Dean thought, but again he didn't articulate the running commentary. Instead, without giving it any forethought, he arched his neck up to meet Sam's soft lips. It only lasted an instant before Sam jerked back.

“Wha...what?” he stammered. Rendering Sam speechless, that could only be a positive. “What are you doing?”

“I'm doing this.” Dean twisted one wrist free – which was way too easy, even given a stunned Sam – and used it to curl his fingers around the back of Sam's head and pull him back down. This time he didn't resist, even though he was wide-eyed with surprise and confusion. Dean closed his own eyes to enjoy the warm moisture, breathe in Sam's living breath. So, so alive; why couldn't Sam relax and enjoy what he had?

When he opened his eyes again, Sam didn't look confused anymore, but terrified, even as it was mixed with deep-rooted longing for comfort that his brother didn't know he wanted. Some barrier was crumbling, and Dean was barely able to sense he had broken it. Maybe, irony of ironies, he'd come back from Purgatory minus his soul, and this was his shelled-out inner psychopath toying with Sam. But it didn't feel motivated from indifference or sadism; it felt instinctual, like a frozen animal craving warmth. Like a lover coming home.

Sam was still staring at him, but hadn't budged, even though they were practically curled up against one another chest-to-chest. “Why?” he said, softly.

Dean couldn't tell exactly what he was asking. Why are you acting all weird, Dean? Why am I, Sam, not as freaked by making out with my brother as I should be? Why now and not before, with all those years of forced intimacy? It was stolen credit cards, they could have been renting two rooms for Christ's sake, and given each other some breathing space.

So he went with, “Why not? Almost everyone we know is dead, Sam. Our family's gone, our friends are gone, and apparently you can't even keep a girlfriend even when you think I'm dead. Who's left?”

“Who's _left?_ That's the most fucked up thing you've ever said, Dean.” He pushed off, intending to get out of the compromising position, but this time it was Dean who grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him back down.

“Look, would you turn off your brain for a minute? What I meant was, we're never going to have normal lives. There's never going to be two kids and a picket fence and your damned pet dog, because we are poison to that life. We _belong_ on the used floor of some skanky motel room. So why don't you fucking stop thinking for once and just go with it? You kissed me back.”

For an instant Dean thought that last jab was one too many, that Sam'd bolt off him just to spite the very words. Instead his eyes narrowed like he was pissed off, and he jerked down to grab Dean in a vigorous kiss. And my _God_ was Sam slobbery, enough that under other circumstances Dean would totally rag college boy for his clearly deficient sex skills. But it was such a triumph to yank Sam back out of his deadened depressive pit, and such a pleasure to feel all that warm skin on his own, that Dean didn't care. It was almost as if Sam had been down in the underworld with him, instead of living here on Earth, lush teeming frantic Earth, where bodies weren't just loci for the blade, but actually mattered in and of themselves.

After a few moments Dean recovered the upper hand, grabbing Sam's hair with one hand to regain some control, while rubbing Sam's back and neck with the other. He couldn't believe how amazing all that skin felt, even if only the top of their bodies were involved. How could he have forgotten this for a whole year? When he'd been a teenager just discovering sex, one of the great revelations was this, just this, not merely the novelty of getting off in the presence of another person, but putting every inch of skin into building it up, declothing, running hands and fingertips everywhere and shuddering, even the post-fuck cuddle sleep. Dean found himself wishing they'd gotten a king bed – and to hell with whatever the front desk thought, because, fuck, now it was actually true – so they could sprawl and tangle and _move_.

Pinned to the floor with Sam practically attacking his face, Dean slid his hands down to wriggle Sam out of his jeans. And that proved to be a step too far. Sam broke off his desperate kissing and blinked as if in a daze.

“Who are you?” he whispered, repeating himself. “Dean would never do this. He's still dead, isn't he.”

And at that moment, Dean chose to go on the attack. He rolled, taking an unresisting Sam with him, landing on top of his brother just as the back of Sam's head slammed on the floor.

“For fuck's sake, Sam, I'm not dead. And you're not dead, either, judging by this.” He kneed Sam's erection underneath him for emphasis, and Sam let out a little moaning huff, whether of frustration or dismay Dean couldn't tell. “Get over it, man. Wake up. Be _alive._ 'Cause there's nothing better than this waiting out there. Someday, sooner or later, we'll die for real, and whether it's Heaven or Hell or some monster gets us and it's back to Purgatory, most everything that makes us _us_ will be gone. It's just ghosts out there. Nothing but ghosts.”

Dean sank his teeth down in the crook of Sam's neck, as if to emphasize blood and flesh and pulse. Not too deep, more to suck than anything, but Sam gasped and curled his fingers in Dean's hair enough to roughly yank his head back up.

“Is that what you were all year? A ghost? Some fucking remnant?” Sam hissed.

“Yeah. Even a killing machine can be a ghost.” He jerked his head out of Sam's vice-grip, and rolled over to one side. Dean's was still turned on – his whole body was still electrified, in fact – but he sure as hell wasn't going to force Sam to do anything. Let his sad befuddled brother figure it out. Well, maybe with a little nudge.

“It's the other times, isn't it? When I was gone? You lost it then, and you're afraid of losing it now. Ruby's blood and all that.”

“I think you're the one who's lost it, Dean,” Sam retorted. Already, minus the skin contact, the mask was back up. Dean longed to roll back over on top of him, get him out of those jeans, grind into him until they both came. Make him scream, make him feel _something._ But in his heart Dean knew he couldn't make Sam do anything, stubborn bastard that he was. They could holler and fight until the cows came home, and Sam would never do what he didn't want to do. Or what he wanted to believe he didn't want to do.

“Hmm. Maybe you're right.” Dean rolled to his feet and stood up, then reached an arm down to pull Sam up off the floor. Confused face again. Dean wasn't making any sense, obviously; this whole being human thing was more difficult than he remembered. “You know, going outside for a little bit, clear my head. Sorry to freak you out, Sam.”

The words didn't help, he could tell. Sam still looked shell-shocked, tousled, ruddy-red, aroused. But the move was no longer Dean's to play. Let Sam work out his fears, of addiction, of adrenaline, of power, of passion, of love. Dean wanted to help him, but he needed to be invited. Running on instinct didn't work back on this fleshy emotional Earth.

It was cold outside, icy wind whipping despite the spring thaw. Appealing. If some creature conveniently appeared before him, Dean knew he could pursue it through the night. He was relentless, unbreakable. But the rest of humanity – the other hunters, Kevin, his brother – weren't so forged and hardened, despite their own personal tempering in the fire. Let them be weak, he decided, let them be vulnerable. Even himself. You could be a hunter and still be prey.

Dean walked around the motel complex, and the town, out into the fields of the night. Nothing attacked, nothing needed to be caught. Just the wind and fog, and yet it still was more alive than Dean had been in a year. Like always, he came back to the room, back to Sam, no matter what was said or done before. Unyielding, like cold hard metal in his hand, waiting to cut.


End file.
